It was a cool evening on the
Boulevard Saint Germain. I had arrived
in Paris two days before, fresh off the train from London. The entire week I had been in Europe with my
grandparents had seemed almost like a dream sequence, like every single step I
taken or sound I’d heard was in slow motion.
It was as though time itself knew that I needed to experience things
thoroughly, to breathe a little more deeply than I did on American soil. This vacation that my grandparents had gifted
me for high school graduation was a dream come true, and I was not going to
waste a moment.
The previous evening, after checking in to our
hotel and cleaning up a bit from our day of travel, we scoured the town for a
restaurant that had any semblance of American cuisine. At one point, we did food that appeared to us
to be “safe” for our simple palates, but boy were we off base. I ended up talking them into taking me to
McDonald’s for a Royale with Cheese, the across-the-pond equivalent to the
Quarter Pounder (I suppose because they use the metric system over there.) This heavenly meal was capped off by my Papa
taking me to the top of the Eiffel Tower, somewhere I had always had on my
bucket list, if a seventeen year old girl can have a bucket list!
As magical as the evening before
had been for me, my Nana had a surprise up her sleeve. I thought that, after visiting the Louvre
that day, my trip to the city of love could not get any more exciting, but I
was so unbelievably wrong. My
grandmother had long known of my obsession with Grace Kelly, the stunning
American movie star who gave up her fame and success in Hollywood to marry
Prince Rainier of Monaco in 1956. She
packed up her whole life and moved to Monte Carlo, starting a family with her
prince and living there until her tragic death in 1982. My Nana let me know that she had located a
train schedule, and she had found a passenger train that travelled to a depot
in Monte Carlo that evening. I had read
in my travel guide that it was rare for European trains to run in remote areas
on Sunday evenings, so I was ecstatic at the news. Monte Carlo, here I come!
Now here is the point where I have
to stop and explain something. I really need to emphasize that my Papa was not
that interested in visiting Monaco. In
fact, my Papa wasn’t interested in many of the things that were on my
list. You see, at sixty-two years of
age, he had already “been there, done that.”
And, he explained, if for some reason there existed some ruin that he
had not scaled, some castle he had meandered through, some basilica that he
actually did not have his photograph snapped in front of, there was probably
some good reason for it. Reverend Jack
DeHart was content to sip American coffee and read the USA Today that was,
without fail, available at every newsagent, every kiosque de journeaux,
edicola, and zietungsstand we came across on our three-week long trek through
Europe. However, he did want me to have
this trip. If I wanted to travel on a
train ride in to Monaco on Sunday evening, however pointless a trip that may be
when there are plenty of books with glossy pictures on the subject, then “by
God, we will go.” Did you catch the sarcasm
in that comment? I sure did, but I
didn’t care because I was about see where Grace Kelly lived!
We boarded the train from Nice to
Monte Carlo sometime after 6:30 in the evening, so we arrived sometime close to
8 p.m. at the train depot. I remember
noting how chilly it was for a July evening, perhaps forgetting that I was on
the other side of the world and therefore subject to weather of opposing
seasons. I felt like I was in an old
Humphrey Bogart movie; the single black iron bench accompanied by a tall,
lovely streetlamp were about the only things waiting to greet us at the
deserted depot. I immediately paused for
a photo-op under the streetlamp, which called for my grandfather to give out a
long sigh as though looking for somewhere to set down his newspaper so that he
could snap a picture was physically painful for him. I pretended not to care- I was in my amazing
dress that I had bought at the amazing Louvre Mall (yes, the Louvre had a mall
underneath it) and I was going to take an amazing picture under the amazing
streetlamp, damnit! The night sky was
pitch black and littered with stars.
This place had to be magical. Did
Monaco have more stars than Texas, I wondered?
It certainly appeared so. I was
so wrapped up in the very idea that I was in Monte Carlo that it took a minute
to realize that we, with the exception of a single night guardsman, were the
only people in sight. Hmmm- I guess I never actually saw anyone else get off
the train.
After a few minutes of walking
down a dimly lit path, we came up on a gated edge to what I then realized was a
cliff overlooking all of the port. It
was absolutely breathtaking. There were
grand ships resting far down below, docked right underneath casinos and
restaurants and villages, all lit up by the night sky. It was strangely peaceful for a destination
of such nightlife. What time was
it? Does everyone go to sleep by eight
o’clock in Monte Carlo?
It turns out that I wasn’t too
far off with my instincts. After
probably twenty minutes of wandering the paths and snapping a few photos, we
ventured back to the train depot to find the night guard. We asked where everyone was, and he informed
us that everything closes very early on Sundays . . . including the train
station. When we asked when the train to
take us back into town would be arriving, he let us know that they expect no
other trains to pass through until Monday morning. At that point, my Papa interrupted my
grandmother and addressed the guard.
“Listen, Haus-we aren’t staying here in Monaco (which he always
pronounced moh-nack-oh.) We have a train
ticket back into town, and I expect to get back there tonight.” “Well, sir,” the guard replied with a thick
Swiss accent,” you may definitely use that voucher to get you back to town, but
not until tomorrow. There is no train
scheduled to pass here tonight.” I
honestly don’t remember the dialogue after that. I only recall leaving my Nana to speak to the
guard while I wandered with my grandpa, his jaw set, down a cobblestone path
for about ten minutes to come upon the fanciest McDonald’s I’d ever seen. It looked like they were closing up for the
night, to which my Papa mumbled, “Wouldn’t you know it? Wouldn’t you just know it?” Just then a worker came out and let us know
that unfortunately all of the equipment was shut down with the exception of the
soft-serve ice cream machine. My grandpa
and I waited outside on the bench until the worker came out with two vanilla
soft-serve cones with a stick of Cadbury’s chocolate protruding from each. He handed her four thousand francs, or about
eight dollars, and we sat and ate our cones in the moonlight. If I leaned my body just so, I was able to
see the side of the cliff that led to the castle where Princess Grace had
lived. I didn’t say much after
that. Instead I just soaked up the view,
the wonder of where I was.
We ended up getting back into town that night,
although the circumstances escape me now.
It seems like a train that just happened to be passing through got us
where we needed to go; I do recall that the port could not be reached by car or
shuttle. What does stick with me is the
magical feeling of getting to see the town where Princess Grace Kelly once
reigned, and the little bit of the sarcasm and cynicism that my Papa brought to
the table before, during, and after the entire excursion. I’m forever grateful, since I’m positive
that’s where I got mine from.
.
